The Reichenbach Redemption
by Pinefresh65
Summary: To everyone's shock and amazement, the first person to find evidence proving Sherlock's innocence, and confirming Moriarty's existence, is... Anderson?
1. Chapter 1

**I am aware that there is probably someone else out there that has come up with the same idea, but I haven't come across them yet, this came to me in one of those eureka moments you have at about two in the morning.  
And by the way: I'm probably not going to update this as fast as I usually do, since it's no longer holidays, but I'll try not to procrastinate. TRY.**

**Enjoy!**

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Anderson wasn't a bad guy. He had an extreme dislike towards Sherlock Holmes, but you try having a conversation with the freak and see how much you love him afterwards. After 'The Reichenbach Fall' as the press had named it, Lestrade had been working himself into old age trying to prove Sherlock was innocent. Anderson was doing his best not to tell his superiors, despite how wrong he thought Lestrade was, and despite how disappointed Lestrade would end up.

He was thinking about this while waiting for his cousin Alfons at the train station. It was no fluke that Anderson knew that 'rache' translates to 'revenge' in German in 'A Study in Pink.' Alfons was from Germany - Anderson could speak near-fluent German.

So there he was, waiting at the train station, it would still be about half an hour until the train arrived, so he grabbed a half-soaked newspaper that had been abandoned on the floor and tested himself by translating the whole head article into German.

He grimaced when he saw the title: 'SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS'

He was glad that the freak had been exposed for what he was, but Anderson didn't want him dead; just arrested and disgraced. He had seen John Watson after Sherlock's suicide, and he couldn't help the pang of guilt in his stomach after he had seen the doctor's face.

He shook his head to clear out these unwelcome thoughts. He did what was right; it was Sherlock's choice to jump off that building. Okay, practice makes perfect…

Suicide of fake genius… _Selbstmord des gefälschten Genies _

He quickly translated the whole article until he reached the words Rich Brook… oh that was easy, _Reich bach_

_No_, he mentally kicked himself - the names stayed the same…wait, what?

Reich bach… Reichenbach?

So the actor Sherlock hired, Rich Brook… his name translated to Reichenbach? As in that little pet name the press gave Sherlock? The Reichenbach hero?

No… no no no no no… this couldn't be right, he refused to believe it, but it couldn't possibly be coincidence. His hands were shaking as he stared at the headline again. Rich… reich, definitely. Brook… Bach… He didn't know what to think any more.

Alfons could wait; he dropped the newspaper on the floor with a wet thud and headed outside to hail a taxi. He had a German to English dictionary in his flat, which he ripped out of his bookshelf and skimmed through as soon as he arrived.

_...rhythm, rib, ribbon, rice… _

_Rich - Possessing great wealth or material possessions._  
Anderson felt sick as he looked down at the translation:_ Reich_

Ok, ok, not time to panic yet… Brook…

_bronze, brooch, brood…_

_Brook – To put up with, tolerate/ __a natural freshwater stream smaller than a river.  
_Translation… _Bach._

Anderson numbly dropped the dictionary onto the floor, standing there; pale, shaking and hyperventilating for a few seconds with his head in his hands, a million thoughts ran through his head. Why did Rich Brook's name translate to Reichenbach? There was no way in hell this was coincidence. Maybe Moriarty was real… the whole incident with the crown jewels labelled him as the kind of criminal to do something like this. Maybe this was Sherlock's doing still, and he just wanted to-

No, Anderson dismissed that thought before he even finished it. He felt panic and hysteria bubbling up inside him, but he managed to suppress it, there was still a possibility that he hadn't driven an innocent man to suicide. He numbly walked back to where he'd dropped the dictionary, dog-eared the pages containing the translations and ran back outside. He hailed a cab and told the driver to get him to Scotland Yard, quickly. He had to tell Lestrade.


	2. Chapter 2

**More somewhat OOC-ness! I'm a firm believer that Anderson (and Donovan and definitely Lestrade) are smarter than they appear when Sherlock's around, so… I hope that's explanatory enough. I'm scared Anderson is OOC though… tell me if he is (and preferably why) and I'll fix it.**

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While in the cab, he thought through a few things. Despite popular opinion, Anderson wasn't a complete idiot, he might look like one in comparison to Sherlock Holmes, but he knew it would be a bad idea to simply run into New Scotland Yard, screaming about his latest discovery. If this Moriarty guy were real, then why did Sherlock kill himself? -he must have had a reason, and Anderson didn't like the sound of that. That didn't necessarily mean that he was convinced Sherlock was innocent, it was just better to be paranoid and safe than sorry. Not to mention if this new finding was incorrect somehow, his superiors would wring his neck, corrupt or not.

So, in the event that there were cameras or spies in New Scotland Yard, how could he get this information to Lestrade? He needed to get it to the Detective Inspector covertly. He realised he was being paranoid, but being paranoid wasn't completely unreasonable in this situation. He suddenly got an idea, it wasn't the best idea and it was a very simple idea, but with any luck it would work.

No matter what the situation, it couldn't hurt to dispose of the evidence.

The cab pulled up outside of New Scotland Yard, he paid the cabbie, but instead of heading straight inside, he instead headed for the small café around the corner. Standing out of the way, in a small alley around the side where there weren't any people around, he ripped the two pages out of the dictionary that had the necessary translations on them and stuffed them in his pocket. He then ripped the rest of the pages out, dipped them in a dirty puddle by his feet, and scrunched them up into a wet, gunky ball – a wet gunky ball that was free of any fingerprints and legible writing. Thank goodness the dictionary was a paperback - the cover joined the soggy paper ball, which he dropped on the floor further down the alley, kicking around a couple of times until it tore apart, camouflaging with the rest of the garbage. Sometimes, being a forensic scientist was useful. It would take Sherlock Holmes to find the dismantled dictionary, and God knew that wasn't going to happen.

After using the bathroom in the café to wash the grime off his hands, he entered New Scotland Yard, putting on his best casual just-here-for-work-never-mind-the-fact-that-I-asked-for-today-off-face. He strolled over to the elevator and went up to the floor belonging to Lestrade's division. The lift doors opened and he walked inside, ignoring the funny looks he got from Donovan – one of the only people who knew he was supposed to be with Alfons today. He quickly whipped the torn pages out from his pocket, placing them on an empty desk nearby, grabbing a highlighter from the drawer and highlighting the words 'rich' and 'brook.' He placed the highlighter back and stuffed the pages back in his pocket as Donovan walked over to him.

'The first day off you've gotten in ages, and you're spending it at work?'

'I just forgot to hand some papers to Lestrade the other day, I won't be long.'

She raised an eyebrow at him, but didn't ask any more questions before she left to go sit back down at her desk – where she had a mountain of paperwork waiting. Anderson marched through the office cubicles and up to Lestrade's office door, knocking four times before entering. Lestrade didn't have the best relationship with Anderson and Donovan ever since The Freak's suicide, but thankfully an angry Lestrade was still a civil and reasonable Lestrade. The Detective Inspector looked up at him upon entering, appearing slightly confused, 'Anderson, what are you-'

'Just a report for you Sir, quite important.'

Lestrade groaned and put his head in his hands, 'More paperwork?' Anderson offered a sympathetic smile, Lestrade grimaced and gestured to the stack of paper on his desk. 'All right, top of the pile.'

Anderson placed the pages on top of the mountain, highlighted-sides-down before turning and exiting the office. Oh shit, he'd completely abandoned Alfons; oh well, he didn't regret it; something was too suspicious about this whole thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**LESTRADE'S POV**

It had been exactly a week and three days since Sherlock's…

_Take a deep breath, count to three, and try again…_

Ever since… Sherlock- _that_ day, the Chief Superintendent had been making Lestrade's life hell, he had been left out of all investigations, he wouldn't be paid, and wouldn't be able to do anything until he'd gone through all of his old cases. Hence the paperwork.

Despite the threat of being fired, which was looming dangerously in the background, he had been running himself ragged working on proving Sherlock's innocence. He had to be very careful, to the point of paranoia - if his superiors got so much as a 'funny feeling' that he was up to something, his neck would be on the block. Heck, he was already screwed enough as it was.

Pulling himself back to reality, he looked down at the innocent-looking folder on his desk; he remembered this one, 'The Speckled Blonde' John had called it. He gave a wry grin and put the folder aside for now, in a grim mood. What was it that Anderson had given him before? It wouldn't be a forensics report – he wasn't allowed on cases. Suddenly interested, and yearning for a distraction from old memories, he picked up the two small pieces of paper that were on top of the dangerously high stack of folders and papers.

He looked at them, they didn't look very important, or like paperwork at all. In fact, they were two crumpled pages torn out of a dictionary, why was Anderson giving them to him? They didn't seem very important, in fact, they looked like pages from a German to English Dictionary that had been very poorly torn out. He grabbed the Styrofoam coffee cup off his desk, took a sip and turned the pages over, only to choke on his coffee, spluttering it all over his desk like the charming creature he was.

_What?!_

_Rich Brook… Reichenbach…?!_

After finally finishing his coughing fit, Lestrade stared blankly at the pages until his legs turned to jelly and he had to sit down. His brain was trying to process too much at once.

This was an unfair blow from reality.

He couldn't leave his office until the end of the day, or he'd probably be fired. So Greg Lestrade sat in his desk chair, thinking. Just thinking and waiting until he could leave and chat with Anderson about this.

* * *

And just like that, Lestrade and Anderson had formed a rag-tag alliance. Of sorts.

There wasn't a whole lot they could do. Lestrade had been told that he could keep his job. (He had a feeling it had something to do with Mycroft) But Lestrade was still being watched carefully by his superiors. Greg was considering leaving anyway, just so he could be rid of the hawk-like gaze of Chief Superintendent Sebastian Moran. Neither of them knew why, but they felt it would be a bad idea to tell the Chief Superintendent about the German translation of Rich Brook. There was just something about Moran that unsettled them.

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**Ooh, the plot thickens! Or it does for us, anyway. I hope you all know who Moran is. And yep, in this story he's not some tall, dark, mysterious stranger with an air rifle in hand, he's the annoying Chief Superintendent who gets his nose broken by John. :)**

**P.S. We'll probably be checking up on Sherlock next chapter, something to look forward to. Or dread. ;)**

**Speaking of, I know I'm updating slowly as it is, but my internet isn't agreeing with my computer at the moment, (Took half an hour for the Doc Manager to load) so it might be longer still until we get to see what Sherlock's up to. ;_;**


	4. Chapter 4

The cold rain trickled down Sherlock's back, mixing with the blood freely flowing from the stab wound he'd received a little earlier. Weighed down by the rainwater soaking into his cheap hoodie and jeans, he hobbled gracelessly down the mangy alleyway, one hand applying pressure to the wound on his left side – just below the ribcage – the other hand gripping the wall in support. The whole situation was bloody inconvenient, if you asked him.

Sherlock Holmes: tricked Jim Moriarty – the famous criminal mastermind - only to be stabbed by a drunkard in an alleyway somewhere in Sweden.

He huffed out a pained laugh, gripping the wound even tighter as pain shot through him. Who was he kidding? Nobody believed Moriarty was anything more than a victim of the psychopathic Sherlock Holmes. Feeling suddenly very lightheaded, he collapsed face-down into a puddle of rainwater on the ground, swallowing some of the filthy water and grazing his knees. He rolled himself onto his side, so as not to drown embarrassingly, and coughed the filthy water out onto the pavement. Looking down, he saw the water swirling around him turning an alarming shade of red. Licking his lips, he tasted blood.

Sherlock was feeling disturbingly warm and sleepy now. He fought against heavy eyelids, feeling waves of mind-numbing pain wrack his alarmingly malnourished, shivering frame. Warm blood continued to pour out of the knife wound in his side, how could so much blood come from such a small injury?

_You're dying you idiot._ He thought to himself, but what could he do? If he called an ambulance (which would be quite a feat, with his hands shaking the way they were), Moriarty's men would inevitably find out and come for him and his friends back in London, and he thought it almost funny how powerless Mycroft was in this situation, unless of course his brother could teleport. He didn't want John to find out about his second death, though. John wasn't doing too well apparently, and Sherlock wasn't so sure he would survive finding out that Sherlock had faked his death, only to bleed out in some alleyway in Sweden. And no doubt if The Fake Genius who offed himself a few weeks ago was found dead again in Sweden, it would make the news. Kitty Reilly would have a bloody field day.

He couldn't really have much say in the matter though, as he slowly gave up, lazily watching the pool of blood mixing with the rain falling from the darkened sky. He barely noticed a figure hesitantly walking towards him before he blacked out.

* * *

**Ok, so, Why Sweden?**

**Why not Sweden? That's why.**


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock woke up disoriented and with a pounding headache. This mixed with the unusual grogginess he was feeling meant he didn't realise where he was for a couple of seconds until he recognised the firm comfort of a bed. It was strange after sleeping wherever he could (under tunnels, in cheap hotels, on the streets) for so long. His first reaction however was to panic.

He bolted up, suppressing a yelp at the sudden flare of pain in his side. Looking down at his bare stomach, he was surprised to see that it had been bandaged rather well. John…?

Then reality hit. John was back in London, slowly wasting away in grief because of him. _Don't think about that right now, Sherlock; you have priorities._

So… he'd been kidnapped by an unusually kind member of Moriarty's organisation who thought he could use medical treatment and a decent rest in an actual bed for once? He dismissed the idea, casting a suspicious glance at every corner of the room before slowly getting up and edging carefully over to the dressing table at the opposite end of the room, being careful to avoid the windows. From the lack of items and furniture in the room, it was obvious that he was in a guest bedroom; he looked at his reflection in the mirror above the dressing table. He barely recognised himself, his face was sunken in and his hair was short and a horrible red colour from a disguise. He reached up to lightly finger a scar running down his temple and ending just near his right eye. He grimaced, remembering when he had to fix that one up himself. Only a few weeks into this… whatever it was, and he had already suffered two near-death experiences; he had to be more careful without a doctor running by his side.

He allowed himself a bitter smile before he heard footsteps approaching the door, he jumped into an improvised defensive stance, flinching at the pain that burned up his side – he wouldn't be able to defend himself properly in this state, he realised with a stab of panic. He braced himself as the door slowly creaked open to reveal a young man in neat casual clothes with a very uncertain smile on his face. 'Oh! You're awake!'

_Weak points: Pretty recently twisted left ankle, the usual pressure points, arteries in the neck, stomach and arms. Point of attack: aim punch at diaphragm, then kick ankle out, run? _

'Um, how are you feeling?' The man was uncomfortable at Sherlock's silence. _Speaking English – knows I'm a foreigner, how? A spy?_

_Blonde hair – undyed, untanned face – doesn't do a lot of outdoor work, slightly crooked teeth – afraid of the dentist or currently low on money, well-cleaned and cut fingernails – desk job or similar-_

'Alright, thank you.' Sherlock disguised his voice with a very slight American accent.

'Are you sure you don't want to go to a hospital? I mean, I patched you up and snuck some things in from work to do a blood transfusion and everything, but I'm a bit concerned…' The man started playing with his fingernails. _Nervous habit, he's scared of me…?_

_Occupation – doctor or similar in the medical profession, but not good at dealing with patients… surgeon? _Then Sherlock realised the man was probably nervous because there was a starved, sleep-deprived, possibly half-insane foreign man in his guest bedroom who had been found with a knife wound in his stomach; not to mention he was covered in small scars and looked like he was prepared for an assault.

'I never said I didn't want to go to hospital?' But if he did say it, he was glad that he did. But that still didn't explain why he didn't ignore Sherlock and take him to a hospital anyway, that's what pretty much everyone would do, why take a bleeding, dirty, malnourished homeless stranger home? The odds were tipping towards this being a trap.

'Uh… when I found you, you kept saying "No hospital," but you were slurring quite a bit. Why didn't you want to go to hospital?'

Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond, thankfully, he was saved by a dull beeping coming from the room beyond that made him jump slightly. The man peered out the doorway at what Sherlock assumed was a microwave, 'Ah! Breakfast's ready! You should try eating something.' Sherlock quickly glanced down at his stomach, he could count his ribs - any argument would be fruitless. 'Come on.' The man walked out the room, waving Sherlock along, who followed hesitantly into the lounge/kitchen/dining room that identified the building as a flat – probably on the bottom floor or he wouldn't have been able to get 'William' inside. Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, identifying escape routes, weapons and anything that could tell him more about this suspiciously kind person.

_Powerboards show he's right-handed, very tidy habits, photos on shelves - very close to family but unmarried, single. _But Sherlock couldn't find anything at all pointing towards criminal tendencies, or an affiliation with Jim Moriarty, this guy was either ridiculously good at disguise or— or…

He almost reminded Sherlock of John. Almost.

'My name's Felix by the way, what's yours?'

'…William.'

'Ok William, I hope you like Baked Beans.' As Felix smiled at him; Sherlock couldn't help but smile back.

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**I hope people have Baked Beans in Sweden… I really do. Can't see any reason why they wouldn't; Baked Beans are amazing :P**


	6. Chapter 6

**A quick thank-you to all my lovely reviewers!**

**I hate favouritism but a slightly-more-special thanks to everyone who has helped me get things right or corrected me, provided constructive criticism etc. such as: Charlotte2May, Jack's Shadow and Clockwork Rebel, who have all been very patient and kind despite my inaccuracies and reluctance to change things. :)**

**Fortunately, Sherlock isn't going to be in Sweden for long after this, nor is the German language going to play a part, so hopefully I'll start getting things right.**

**I had quite a few concerns with this chapter (that's why you had to wait so long for this, sorry) but my BETA has assured me that all is well, so I hope you agree with them. :)**

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'So… William, do you like… sports?' Felix was trying his best to make conversation, a noble pursuit, but one that was in vain.

'No.'

'ah… ok.'

There was another length of silence as they both ate, thankfully Sherlock was used to awkward silence (especially as he was usually the cause of it) but Felix shifted in his chair, biting his lip slightly - clearly uncomfortable.

'Um… do you… eat Baked Beans often?' Felix held up his fork, gesturing to the lumpy orange mass on the end of his fork before it dripped off the end and fell directly onto the table top, splattering like the gluey mess it was.

Sherlock held back a sigh, Felix didn't just remind him of John – he was very much Molly Hooper, too. He supposed he should try being more… grateful towards the awkward man, especially as the food didn't smell, taste or look like it had any traces of poison in it.

'Not really, they aren't exactly… my cup of tea.' Sherlock gave him a fake, but convincing smirk.

'Oh! I-I'm sorry, would you like something else?'

'No… thank you, I've suffered worse.'

Felix laughed nervously, nodding towards Sherlock's bandaged stomach. 'I guess you have…'

There was silence again as they both sipped their coffee. Sherlock was actually enjoying this, free food was a rarity, a luxury that should be savoured. Nonetheless, he barely restrained himself from licking the plate after he had wolfed down almost the entire can of beans and three pieces of toast. It was amazing what a week of near-starvation could do to a person, Sherlock nearly threw up but managed to keep it down through sheer willpower.

They both finished and Felix stood up, 'Right, I'll go have a shower or… something, then I'll check your bandages again. Ok?'

Sherlock nodded, but he didn't actually plan to stay, the longer he was here, the more danger Felix was in, and despite his attitude at crime scenes, he didn't actually like it when people he knew died. Especially people who were nice to him.

So while Felix grabbed a change of clothes and a towel from a cupboard in the hallway, Sherlock sat silently at the table, staring off into space. Once he heard the shower running, he carefully but quickly got up from the table and walked into the spare bedroom, he grabbed his old clothes – that had been washed, carefully folded and placed on a chair in the corner of the room – and put them on, which took much longer than was convenient thanks to his wound.

Walking back out into the main room, he heard the shower turn off. Ah, so Felix was one of those people. Sherlock couldn't understand how anyone could wash their hair in less than ten minutes, but he supposed it had something to do with his –now non-existent - thick mop of black curls that took half an hour to wash at best. Now in a hurry, he quickly opened the door and stepped out, carefully closing it behind him so as not to alert Felix of his sudden departure.

He only had a few minutes before his disappearance would be noticed. He started down the stairs a bit slower than he would have liked thanks to his injury, but eventually made it outside, walking as quickly as he could. He didn't get very far, however, before he heard a small, sharp noise behind him, then a pained cry and a thump as something heavy hit the ground. He immediately ducked behind the nearest solid object – a parked car - out of reflex, scanning the area quickly he saw that the window to Felix's flat had a small hole in it, surrounded by tiny cracks. He would have noticed a bullet hole in the window before – and judging by the fact that the window hadn't smashed conspicuously, it was a professional assassination...

Before all of this even came to mind however, he found himself ignoring his sense of self-preservation and sprinting back into the flat, ignoring the nearly unbearable pain in his side.


	7. Chapter 7

**Ok, I looked back at the previous chapter and realised: Damn, I haven't updated in ages, (4 months) and my writing style really needs some polishing up. (It's quite obvious, I'm sorry) So, I'll at least try to start updating again now.  
WARNING: Un-BETA'd, death.  
P.S. I'm not good at emotions and etc. but I'll try!**

Sherlock slammed open the door to the flat, immediately noticing the downed figure lying on the floor. Panicking, Sherlock bolted towards him and quickly checked where his injury was. There, the entry wound was on the left shoulder, dangerously close to the neck. What kind of professional sniper would go for the shoulder? Unless they wanted him to bleed out slowly…

Sherlock could save him if he stopped panicking - easier said than done - panicking caused many wasteful deaths, he was aware. Damn it damn it damn it, what was he supposed to do?! He only knew what to do with injuries when the victim was already dead!

_Focus, Sherlock, and get him away from the windows, _his common sense told him. Hooking his arms under Felix's, he dragged him away from the window and behind the couch, leaving a thin trail of blood behind. He then ran over to the windows. Making sure to be quick but stay out of sight, he closed all of the blinds, seeing no sniper. Damn, they had to be good if they could find a hiding place around here. Sprinting back to the bloodied man's side, he fell to his knees and quickly ran through his minimal medical knowledge.

He wasn't sure how to deal specifically with bullet wounds. Before, he always had Mycroft, John or Lestrade nearby, and they could deal with this kind of situation, so Sherlock never bothered to learn more than basic first aid, which was only common sense and CPR anyway.

Therefore, basic first-aid didn't quite cover bullet wounds.

_Pressure,_ his mind supplied. _Pressure is a good thing, right?_ He quickly pressed both hands down on the injury, ignoring the pained noises coming from Felix, ignoring the way his own injury was protesting, ignoring the sticky blood seeping through the material of his jeans, ignoring everything except Felix's bloodied shoulder.

"Wh- w..." A few whimpers was all the injured man could manage.

"Where is your phone?" Sherlock tried to keep a calm tone.

"Wha's happening?"

"Where is your-" Sherlock hesitated. If he called an ambulance, he'd be caught by police and pulled in for questioning. He didn't exactly have a passport, nor could he speak Swedish very well, and he couldn't waste the time or risk being found out by Moriarty's men. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, to use the common expression.

"…where is your first-aid kit?"

"K-kitchen"

Sherlock ran into the kitchen, grabbed the item in question and sped back to the main room. He ignored the sickening squelch from the blood-soaked carpet as he knelt down next to Felix's head again. The Swede was weakly applying pressure to his own shoulder.

"Wha's 'appened?"

"Bullet"

It took Felix a few seconds to process his words, but when he did, his eyes widened. Sherlock started fiddling around with bandages, trying to improvise a way to stop the volumes of blood that were quickly draining from the man's shoulder.

"Wh-wha-a..?"

"I told you, bullet." His words were sharp and harsher than he would have liked.

"But.. B- how? Why…?"

"I assume an assassin, sniper to be specific, unless you have any enemies with a gun license."

"N-nh…" His breathing was sharper, coming in short bursts, fuck… was he going into shock? Sherlock couldn't tell, his perceptive talents were inconveniently dulled, as if there were a layer of cotton wool separating his eyes and his brain. He was picking up information, but failing to process it.

He didn't know how long it had been, but Felix began convulsing unpleasantly, then stilled. In desperation, Sherlock pressed two fingers to the Swede's too-cold neck, feeling for a pulse, but there was none. He didn't even try CPR, there was too much blood, Sherlock knew it would be in vain. The original carpet colour was indistinguishable under the blood, which had pervasively soaked into every fibre, only escaping to pool around Sherlock's feet as he stood up with a loud squelch and leaned against the far wall of the room with both hands.

Why…

…WHY HADN'T HE CALLED A FUCKING AMBULANCE?!

Sherlock gripped fistfuls of his own hair with both hands, but it was oddly unsatisfying with his hair as short as it currently was. He resisted the urge to scream and smash his fists against the wall like he used to when he was a child. Instead he managed to swallow his own self-hatred and lean his head against the cool wall, fists still clenched in what was left of his hair. Blood from his hands and arms smeared across the white surface, leaving more evidence for the forensics team that would no doubt be attending this crime scene in a day or two at most. Sherlock didn't care, let them find the evidence, track him down, arrest him – he deserved it. Maybe then he could finally rest… stop this bloody nightmare that had been going on since he dived off St. Barts.

He hadn't called an ambulance because of his own selfishness, his own sense of self-preservation, he hadn't even thought twice about it. And now the most decent person he'd met in ages was dead. Dead because of him – Sherlock knew from experience how painful bullet wounds were… he was dead because he had been kind to Sherlock. Everyone who was even remotely kind to him always ended up hurt. Like John.

Shit, the sniper must have been one of Moriarty's, which meant his survival was no longer a secret. That in turn meant that John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were all in danger. Sherlock turned back hesitantly to look at Felix's body, the blood pooling around him, still oozing out of the bullet wound in his left shoulder. Wasn't the left shoulder where John got shot in Afghanistan? Sherlock's stomach dropped. He was killed by a sniper as… a threat? No, this wasn't a threat, or a warning, it was a promise. _Look what happens to your friends, Sherlock._ _That will be John soon, _Sherlock heard his sing-song voice clearly, as if the consulting criminal were in the room, standing right next to him.

He went into the kitchen and washed the blood off his hands, then changed his clothes. He was going back to London ASAP, it was time for a reunion with his brother.

**Absolutely awful, am I right? This is the furthest away from 'garbage' I think I can get it though (It's un-BETA'd as I said before as well). And don't worry, Sherlock isn't going to get arrested for killing Felix, he would've taken preventative measures, I just can't be bothered writing them in because I'm tired and you'd get bored, so use your imagination. :)**


End file.
